Only a Cat
by Rosaria Marie
Summary: Following Cersei's rise to the throne, Myrcella Baratheon, imprisoned in Winterfell, she encounters Jon Snow, now king of the north, who plans to use her as a hostage in exchange for the life of his captive sister Arya. But when things do not go as planned, will Myrcella become another victim of vengeance...or something else? (NOTE: CURRENTLY ON HIATUS)
1. Chapter 1: Capture the Cat

Part 1: Capture the Cat

When they first bring the girl to me, she has the look of a frightened deer about her, her cloak wet from the snow, her long gold hair a bedraggled tangle. She is made to get off her own horse, without the assistance she is accustomed to, waiting on her hand and foot.

Myrcella, a Baratheon princess, a Lannister cat. That's what Cersei's child is, with her blue eyes wide and watery, looking around her for someone to treat her delicately, the dignity of her sex, the privilege of her rank. But we had been taken too far, all of us in the north.

 _The Lannister lion sends his regards._

 _Well, so does the Stark wolf. And he'll howl on your graves…_

She reminds me so of Sansa, with her beauty and her pride, and the way she makes light prints in the snow. She reminds me of her, with the pale pallor of her cheeks and way her eyes change colors when she is nervous, or excited, or frozen with fright. I never had a close relationship with my half-sister, and yet now that she is gone, vanished with the Lannister Imp after they were both accused of poisoning the mad boy king at the Purple Wedding, I realize I may never see her again. And I grieve for her.

But this girl in front of me is bringing it all back. She is well-raised, like Sansa, yet not in the wolf's rocks but in the lion's den. And so she is my enemy. A minor enemy, it is true, captured by brigands without a side, simply looking for the quickest pay, as she was being sent away to the coast for her protection, so it was thought. She's so very different from the real enemy, the one that brings the death of ice over the land, beyond the wall.

But she is my enemy. And my only hope of recovering Arya. The Needle I gave her has gone to her head. Why, oh, why, did vengeance have to mean so much to her now? A thousand dead Lannisters and like scum are not worth the loss of her life. To kill Jaime, and be captured trying to kill Cersei…it is a death sentence. And I know how the enraged lioness will mete out death.

 _Stick 'em with the pointy end._

Oh, gods, old and new…will do anything to get Arya back unharmed. I will do anything, by any drop of Stark blood in me…

Two soldiers have taken her by the arms now, roughly, a bit too roughly even for my tastes. They pull the hood off her, and jostle her, and shove her forward.

"Now, enough, she's had enough," I blurted out at last.

I hear her cough; she's standing on the stairs in front of me, shivering in the cold. She looks like she might faint any moment, but also seems determined to keep standing, for her pride no doubt, for the pride of her house. But for a moment, I pity her anyway, and I reach out my hand to her. She looks at it blearily, and touches her temple.

"Are you ill, my lady?"

She doesn't talk, either too proud or afraid to answer any questions. But she looks at me straight in the eyes, and I see Cersei staring through her, and have to swallow back some revulsion. _Lioness bitch…lioness-bred-bitch…_

But then she reaches out and takes my hand, pulling herself up the stairs to where I am, and then starting to lace it through my arm, so she might be properly escorted to wherever she might be led. Then…she starts coughing again, leans on me, falls towards me…

 _A trick of her mother's teaching? To make me soften towards her?_

I brusquely touch her forehead, feel the heat, and realize it's not a ruse. And soon, ever-so-reluctantly, she is up and in my arms, her cursed mother's hair falling over my breastplate.

When she opens her eyes an hour later, she is in a bed. She sees me there, as I have been for the past quarter hour, just watching her breathing. "That's…a lovely color," she murmurs. "The canopy…it…it's very nice…"

"It wasn't meant for you," I say, harshness coming through unbidden. "It was my sister Sansa's, before she left…" I squint at her. "Left, and never returned, courtesy of your family name."

She looks sad. "I…I'm sorry…Sansa was pretty, she was kind…"

"And now she's most likely dead, and my sister Arya imprisoned, waiting to be killed."

She sits up a little bit, against the pillow. "That's why you bought me from those hellish vile men, isn't it? You want…want a trade."

I twitch a raw smile. "Smart girl. You have your mother's beauty and her brains."

It isn't so much meant to be a compliment, but she smiles as if receiving one. I suppose she thinks her mother has quite a head on her shoulders, and quite a body upholding the head. I very nearly say something threatening to scare her, about heads and bodies and their loose attachment, but I swallow it back.

She doesn't seem to be trying to challenge me; only looking about her surroundings with some interest. "When I was here last, I had a nice room, like this…it was a long time ago…before the wars…"

"Lifetimes ago," I concur.

She nods and closes her eyes again, sleepily. "I'll…dream about it…"


	2. Chapter 2: Comb the Cat

Chapter 2: Comb the Cat

A week goes by, and with it a raven flies to King's Landing with an ultimatum for Cersei. If she wants her daughter back unharmed, Arya must be returned to Winterfell. No games, lion queen. No tricks. No gambling with your child, clever lady. Do not tempt the wrath of wolves…

Next time I speak to the girl myself, she is talking about a cat. A stable cat, to be precise, one used to spending the coldest of nights sleeping in the hay for the horses. He's got a gnarled appeared, with half an ear chewed off after a fight with some animal out in the woods. He's been a presence at Winterfell forever and a day, and my younger brothers Bran and Rickon used to play around with him in the barn, although he mostly didn't like it and tried to keep to himself.

But here she is coming down the hallway with the creature curled up in her arms like a newborn babe, and he seemed to be quite enjoying the attention. Although mostly confined to her room in a form of house arrest, I have given her some liberty to walk the corridor leading out of her room to a larger room with a balcony so she can get some fresh air. It does her well, as she's been ill and short of breath. She's growing stronger, it seems, or perhaps it is just that she's grown more preoccupied with her furry foundling as opposed to her state as hostage.

"How did it come to be inside?" I query, jutting my chin towards.

"I don't know, he just was," she answered simply. "But he seems hungry to me. You should really feed him better, Lord Snow. I'd like to feed him. Can you get me something proper to feed him? Something he would like?"

"And you expect me to be feeding it with dumplings and cream while my men on the walls are nearly starving and the winter setting in?"

She looks back down at the cat, working her fingers through its matted fur. "The poor thing hasn't ever been combed," she states clicking her tongue. "I'd also like to have a comb if I may to get out some of these knots."

I roll my eyes. "You really must be lonely to be taking up with that snarly old thing."

She gives me a look, like I've just insulted her best friend. Then she looks sad. "No one talks to me, not that old woman who brings me food, not the guards…well, sometimes the guards, but I'd rather not repeat what they say to me."

I exhale. "I'll tell the guards to stop harassing you. It was never my intent for them to do so."

"At least they talk a little," she counters. "Better then constant silence, except for water leaking through the roof."

"My lady, we haven't exactly had times for repairs at Winterfell, if you take my meaning. As I'm sure you're aware, it was just recently retaken from the Boltons, and they are responsible for the state it is in."

"I don't see what that has to do with talking," she grumbles. She looks up. "Why don't you ever come and talk to me?"

She takes me off guard. "My lady…social engagement is not the main reason for your… _visit_."

"But you're the only one here with whom I am close to being an equal, so it's your duty to…"

"An equal?" I spit. "The bastard son of a northern lord your family slaughtered for a kindness he tried to pay them?"

This silences her for a spell, and she goes back to petting the cat. "I'm sorry…for your father. He was strong, and kind…"

"You're sorry over many things it seems," I retort. "Does that make it better for any of them, or are you just trying to free yourself from guilt?"

She looks at me for a long time and bites her lip. "What would you have me say?" she questions me.

"There's nothing to say," I respond, turning my eyes to the ground. "Which is why pleasant conversation is not optional, my lady. And I am accustomed to it on my tongue at any rate. I am what I am, and I am not ashamed of it anymore. I will not pretend to be what I'm not."

I turn and start to walk away from her down the hall.

"I'm not stupid, you know," she says, and I pause. "I'm not some little feather-head who doesn't know my own mind."

"Yes, just like your mother and grandfather know their own minds," I retort.

But she doesn't seem fazed. "I can talk about all kinds of things," she rambles on. "I've read all kinds of books, on history and philosophy and art…"

"What genteel pastimes," I grunt.

"I enjoy learning," she replies. "Learning is what makes us human."

"There are other things to being human, my lady, not found in books."

She lowers her eyes and nods slowly. "Perhaps they are. But books…they make us grow up."

"And you think you're all grown up, don't you?" My voice softens looking her over. She can't be more than 15, but she's trying so very hard to carry herself full-grown it almost hurts.

"I am a princess of the House Baratheon," she tells me sternly, lifting her chin proudly.

"And of House Lannister," I add testily.

"Yes." She starts to scratch her cat behind the ears. "I…I have always been…grown up."

I'm tempted to agree with her. Sometimes I feel that all of us have always been grown up, that the pressure of position and the weight of wars murdered even the memories of any childhoods we might have had.

"I'll see about getting you some books to keep you company," I inform her before turning once again to leave.

"And my cat?"

" _Your_ cat?"

She nods. "He came to me in the hallway. He let me pick him up. I think he's mine now."

I shake my head. "We'll see about some scraps, my lady."

"And a comb. He needs a comb. As a matter of fact, so do I. Can you see to that?"

I'm tempted to tell her that she should take care ordering about the king of the north like a servant boy in her position. But her hair really does look like it needs combing, and I'm tired by her obstinacy, so I nod tentatively before turning away again.

I do manage to catch a slight smile at the corner of her mouth from the corner of my eye. It's not entirely pleased nor entirely displeased. It's a patient sort of smile from a girl who knows her own mind.


	3. Chapter 3: Bathe the Cat

Chapter 3: Bathe the Cat

The next time I see her, it is of my own volition. I know I shouldn't go to see her, but I almost find myself curious as to what she is doing with herself. She's a strange little specimen, either oblivious to just how precarious her position is or simply determined to make the most of every situation, no matter how unpleasant.

And when I encounter her next, she is busy trying to wash her cat in a bucket of soapy water outside on the balcony. Seeing her all drenched, and her hair falling down in her face, struggling with the whining animal that now looks like a drowned rat cannot help but make me chortle slightly.

She looks up sharply. "You wouldn't laugh, Lord Snow, if you were doing it."

"Who ever told you he liked bathing?"

"Sometimes you don't like what you need," she answered, then lost her grip on her feline charge, who slipped out of her grasp and ran back into the castle. She huffs in frustration. I smile a bit, and she looks at me scoldingly. "Now look what you've done!"

"I…I did that?"

"Yes, you…made me lose my focus." She blushes a little, and I wonder if there's a double meaning to that.

"I'm sorry I have that effect," I chime back cheekily.

"I accept your apology," she forgives me courteously. "Oh, and there's something else…" She darts inside the archway for a moment, returns with the books I had brought to her, and shoves them in my arms. "Do you think you could get me some more books? I read through all these."

I raise an eyebrow. "You read all these, since they were brought to you?"

She nodded in affirmation.

"Now I'm thinking you're just like your uncle the dwarf."

She smiles. "He always used to buy me books for my name days and for any festival days that came up. He said I was a clever girl."

"Quite the compliment from him, I should think."

"He was always nice to me and Tommen, no matter how mother treated him, and I was glad for that. Sometimes he was vulgar, and she would scold him for it, but I still liked him. He was kind…"

"You put great stock in kindness, don't you?"

She shrugs. "Maybe if more people were kind, they wouldn't…they couldn't…none of this would have to happen." She eyes me cautiously. "Have you heard aught from my mother?"

"No, my lady." She has a right to be nervous about it. I have no idea what Cersei will do, although I can only hope that the love of her children, which she has demonstrated thus far, will hold out for all our sakes.

"She will respond soon enough," the girl assures. "I know she will."

"How do you know?" My question is as raw as I feel at the moment, as uncertain and gloomy and churned up with dread.

"Because…she's my mother," she assures me. "Mothers look out for their children above all else."

"I wouldn't know," I sigh. "I never knew my mother. Don't even know who she was. Probably some whore in a battle camp, that's all."

She looks at me sadly. "I'm sure she still cared, though…"

I shake my head, just wanting to get past it all. "I don't suppose I'll ever know. I don't suppose it matters now."

"Of course it matters," she retorted, then adds more softly, "Love always matters."

I don't say anything back, just circulates my shoulders. I want to say, though, that love seems to cause less pleasure and more pain, and it never seems to hold on very long…it's the first thing to die in the cold of winter….

"So…will you get me more books please?"

 _Something of an improvement_ , I think. _At least she said please, like a good little cat._

"We'll see," I answer.

"What is your favorite of the ones I just read?" she inquires.

"In all honesty, I haven't read them, my lady. They belonged to my step-mother."

"You should read them; they're actually quite good books."

"I find myself a bit preoccupied in my present state in life," I inform her.

"Yes, but you should always make time for books. Knowledge is power, you know, so any sort of would-be-king would do well to read them."

"I believe someone told me that before," I mutter, thinking back to the half-man reading on the wall. Then I squint. "And it's not 'would-be', my lady. I am king in the north…"

She looks at me like she is sorry. "I didn't mean to hurt your feelings," she assures me, and then rather sympathetically brushes down a bit of fur lining my collar, almost as if it were alive. I would swat her away, but my arms are full of books.

"I…what are you doing?"

"It was sticking up all on end."

"Yes, thank you, my lady," I sarcastically respond. "However would I have managed?"

I turn to leave, and hear her ask, "Do you think I could have a cloak like that? I like it; I've always liked northern fashion. It looks so nice and warm."

I hide that I am smiling, beneath the lips I keep tight in a line. "I don't believe I need to remind you that we northerners have more pressing matters to focus on than fashion."

"Well, if you don't go about stark naked, than fashion is a part of life, and a rather necessary one at that. And if you've got to do that, you might as well make the most of it."

I bite my tongue. "You're…resilient, aren't you?"

She lifts her chin at me again, trying to be a lioness again, although she looks like a soggy kitten. "I am a princess of house Baratheon…"

"Yes, so we've all been told," I exhale.

I am getting the sinking feeling that I should not have come to see her at all, for fear of getting inadvertently attached. It's such a strange thing, attachment. It can happen so easily, over absolutely nothing. Such ordinary, nonsensical things can make you attached. Like an annoying cat you take in from the rain that keeps rubbing up against your leg, and you half want to kick it away, and half miss it once it's away.

But it is worse, much worse than that. She is reminding me of a sister I don't have, and the sisters I do have, either dead or in mortal danger. And I am reminded that her life is the thing that may buy my true sisters life. Or if that fails, her life may have to pay for it, to teach Cersei that her cruelty has consequences. And suddenly I feel sick, for I realize that I view her as a barnyard animal I don't want to name, so it's not as painful when I have to…

I don't want to think of it all the way. And she's still talking about how nice she'd look in a northern cloak. She might at that. Give her a collar to pet other than my own, anyway.

"Oh, and something else," she adds, her finger on her cheek. "I was thinking, might I…have a lady guard over me soon? I'd like very much to take a bath myself. I haven't since I arrived here, and it's fitting and proper that I should have one."

 _Oh, gods…a bathing beauty now…the guards would love it…_

So I say again, in a non-committal way, "We'll see, my lady," and again she smiles her strange knowing little smile, and skips off inside to find her water-drenched cat.


	4. Chapter 4: Kill the Cat

Chapter 4: Kill the Cat

News comes, a week onwards. News comes, heavy and cold, the densest snow, the kind that falls sideways and blinds the vision, that suffocates and smothers. Oh, Cersei, what matter of being are you? Has vengeance truly become more to you than your own flesh and blood? Or are you simply playing me, thinking that I can never carry out my threat? Think me weak, Cersei, think me weak when I learn of my sister's body cut up like dead meat, and her head mounted on a spike for the ravens? Oh, Cersei you should not have tempted me…

The northern lords, they say in must be done. And I am broken enough to do it. They say if Cersei is allowed to play upon us, our word will ever be viewed as false, our declarations empty, our judgments too easily softened, holding no weight. The ax must fall, for someone must bear the weight that has been laid down. I agree with my head; I should agree with my heart. I want to make Cersei suffer for every drop she has extracted from us. Yet my soul is agonized, writhing, twisting.

I feel simultaneously stiff and light-headed as I trudge down to the dungeon, to see her, the one I do not wish to see, the one who has been locked up there for the past two days since I news came. Now this the third day. I do not wish to see the visage of my sister's murderer staring back at me, for that is the blood she shares, though she cannot help it. And they expect me to shed it. Certainly, any man among them would do the job if I could not stomach it. But they would view me low for not scrubbing the stains off my own clothes.

I shiver. Is a little girl's life merely a stain to be scrubbed off?

But she's part of them, I tell myself, part of them, stupid and sheltered from the world outside her little bubble. She doesn't know the depth of things that have passed here, cannot fathom the intensity of what her family has unleashed upon mine. I should hate her for it. For being alive when all those near and dear to me are dead. I should wish to even the score…

I open the door, and see her sitting there in the corner, in the dark, her hands clutching and unclutching the skirt of her dress. I can see her eyes by the torchlight now. She doesn't say anything. All her pleasant banter and silly chatter has been drained out of her. She is like a ghost of herself. She just stares, silently. She must know why I am here. She must have been waiting for me, surely. She must know what this moment means.

"Stand up, Myrcella Baratheon," I order her, my voice tense, closing the door behind me.

She does so slowly, her eyes searching into the dark. "Jon Snow," she whispers. "You came to see me." I make out the smallest hint of a smile on her face, pale and moon-like, knowing like every moon knows, death comes with the dawn. "I didn't think anyone would."

I feel a twitch, and am angry with myself. It is justice, this thing, justice and no less. It will save lives in the long run. This is the game we play; blood for blood, without remorse. I've killed many men before; I've felt the life leave them under my sword. But this feels…different…

 _No, no, if she dies…who will take care of that mangy cat? Who will I get books for? Who will I buy a fur-trimmed coat for? How will she ever take that bath? Oh, gods, am I a child, making such childish excuses for myself, when I know what must be done…? Oh, gods of war, help me do it, help me take a life I do not wish to take…_

I pull out my sword, the one that is etched with the sign of the wolf. She comes towards me, as if she thinks I pulled it out simply to show her something. Her eyes are innocent. She touches the blade, and my throat goes dry. Both hands are on it now, and she's studying the insignia, curiosity dancing in her eyes.

"It's very pretty," she says, and my heart breaks.

I tear it away from her more abruptly than intended, and she jumps back, obviously startled. She knows now she is not safe. She knows…I am a wolf, a wolf's mission. Raw meat, raw flesh, raw blood and red bone…

Her breath hitches. "You…?"

"I am king in the north," I state, but it bears no pride, only pain. "I must carry out my own retribution, my own justice, as my father would. I must…look the death I inflict in the eyes, not leave it to other men."

She is cutting me to the quick, the way her eyes finally drop and she sees blood running from her hands. The blade must have cut them when I pulled it away so abruptly. "Oh…oh…" she is gasping, staring at the blood, and her breathing is rushed an panicked, and she is shaking now, and clutching her belly with her one hand. She looks like she will crumble on the ground before the blow even falls.

"Myrsella," my voice grinds out, "look me in the eyes."

She rings her hands together, and with an amazing presence of mind her eyes meet mine again, and they are bleeding hot, silent tears.

I feel that I cannot breath. I must get it done, while she is looking at me…must have done with it, and go on…

I lift the sword at an arch, at an angle, and it glints in my eye, the glint it always makes before it kills. She looks mesmerized by it, her eyes crossing between belief and disbelief and back again, her lips move briefly, I think they form my name, but no sound comes out. She is frozen, and my arm is frozen, afraid of the drop…

It all flashes before me, as if it had already been done. The way she will squeak as the blade goes through her, all the way through her, but still struggle not to scream as she sees the blood all over her dress. She will crumple onto the ground, panting like a wounded animal, looking up with horror-frozen eyes, trying to process if this is truly the end. And she will throttle on the floor, like the men I have slain in battle, and the blood will well up in her mouth, and she will choke on it till her body stops working and blue eyes are robbed of soul.

And I see myself, standing over her, and it is not myself any more, but Cersei.

And in that moment I know that _I can't_. Call me a coward, a weak, bitch-born bastard disgrace to my name, but I'm looking at her, and she's looking at me, and _I can't_ …

I hear my sword clatter on the ground and turn, my arm pressed over my eyes. Then after a long seemingly endless pause, I blindly clutch at the door handle with my other gloved hand, yanking it open. My voice comes out in a choke, a rasp, holding on to too much pain to be recognizable as my own.

"Run…run away, you little Cersei…you'd better run before your blood runs…now _go!_ "

She hesitates, for a moment, and then springs for the door like a frightened, cornered cat, and she's fleeing down the hall as fast as she might run, and I hear a suppressed sob finally come out of her, as my own weeping forces itself out of me, seeing Arya, my little Arya, torn apart by lion claws in my mind.

 _Stick 'em with the pointy end_ …oh, oh, oh, and she's the one who got it…oh, oh, oh…curse the day I gave her the needle, that stitched vengeance in her heart and sewed her eyes shut…


	5. Chapter 5: Comfort the Cat

Chapter 5: Comfort the Cat

A couple of days have passed since the day of the execution that never happened. She has locked herself up in her room, and will not open the door for any reason. She has been scared nearly to death, and I understand that, and I hated myself for it. But she had to eat at some point. I certainly am not going to incur the wrath of the northern lords for my inability to kill her just so she could go and kill herself. She is so very quiet. What if she…?

I have had enough; I am going to go see for myself. I know the sight of me may not calm any of her fears. She trusted me naively, and I shattered that trust the moment I raised my sword against her. The fact that it did not fall on her is irrelevant; I could have let it fall, and I very nearly did. She must be questioning what other horrible acts I am capable of now.

But I am outside her door nevertheless, knocking on it with determination. If she is to live, she has to eat. It is as simple as that.

"My lady," I call into her. "My lady, can you hear me? Are you well?"

There is no answer. I don't suppose I would blame her. Well? Seriously? After what she's been through? After what we've all been through, through no fault of our own?

"My lady, I intend to see you, one way or the other, for your own good. I won't go away from here until you open up, or I have to get in through other means."

A long pause elapses, and I wonder if I should pitch a tent in the hall. Eventually, though, I hear the door unlock on the other side. After a few moments, I open it gingerly, I see the girl curled up on her bed with her cat. Her hair is a mess and her eyes are puffy and red. She's hugging the animal like her only security.

"My lady, you needn't have any fear," I try to calm her. "When a Stark judges against the death penalty, he will not let any harm befall the one to whom protection has been given."

She nuzzles her cheek against the cat. "I…I don't care what you do," she says hoarsely. "It…it doesn't matter now."

"Of course it matters. If it didn't matter, I certainly wouldn't be dealing with a lot of wrestles lords whispering under their breath about the weak blood of Ned Stark's bastard," I blurt out, frustrated.

She sits up a little. "It didn't matter to my own mother."

I exhale. "She…she simply played me the fool, to have her cake and eat it. She got her precious vengeance, and knew me too well to imagine that I could take mine out on you."

"She…she still…left me here, she knew it _could_ have happened, she…" She rubs a hand across her eyes. "It almost _did_."

"Yes, but it didn't. It couldn't." I move closer to her. "My father taught me to look the person in the eyes before striking, to see if they truly deserved it. I could never have seen how you did."

"I'm a little Cersei," she murmured. "You said so yourself."

"I wish you were," I confess. "I wish…I wish I could have brought myself to see more of her in you."

"But I look like her," she offered. "Everyone's always said that."

"That's not… _you_ , is it? You're what you make yourself, all inside."

Gingerly, I move even closer, and let myself sit on the edge of her bed. She stares me down for a little while, suspiciously, then pulls back the covers slowly and sits up next to me, dangling her legs over the edge of the bed.

"I'm sorry…I know you're hurting badly over…" She pauses, and draws a deep breath. "I felt the same way when Tommen died. It was like all the candles had gone out."

"Then why the hell have you always seemed so…?" I don't know what word I'm trying to find. Until she nearly got sliced in two by a direwolf sword, she seemed positively spritely, which most certainly did not coincide with her circumstances.

"Well, that's something Tommen and I used to play at," she explains sadly. "People didn't pay much attention to us. We were forgotten, for the most part, so we became best friends. But Joffrey, he was always very mean to us. He used to do terrible things to poor Tommen, and sometimes, sometimes…" She inhaled, as if wondering if she should go further. "He…he tried to touch me, and not in a good way."

"You don't have to tell me any more, my lady," I assure her. "I know what your eldest brother was like. I hope he did not hurt you too much…?"

"No, he never did… I always ran away, and Tommen, he'd try to protect me. Joffrey would just beat him about, and cut him sometimes with a knife he carried around. It used to scare me terribly. I had to calm Tommen down afterwards, and we promised…promised each other that no matter how bad things got, and how awful people could be…we'd try to think happy thoughts, and take care of each other, and believe there were nice people in the world…" Tears are coming up in her eyes.

She is silent for a long, long time, and I do not wish to break it. She must be the one.

"I wish I were a bird," she says at last. "I wish I had strong wings with beautiful feathers, like the birds from distant isles, and I would fly up into the sky and see all the world, and when I found a tree I liked, far, far away from all this, I would perch and make myself a nest out of moss…" She turns to me. "What would you do, if you were a bird? Where would you fly?"

I chuckle a little, then seeing the earnestness in her eyes, I try to answer. "I would fly off and find you something you'd like for a present, to make you happy, so you'd have something to eat, and not hate me anymore."

She looks at me, and bites on her lower lip. "You'd…you'd get me a northern cloak?"

"Yes, the nicest one I could find."

"With fur …all around the collar?" She gestures to the appropriate place around her neck.

I nod. "I'd even get you a matching muff, if you wanted."

"Jon Snow?"

"Mmhh?"

"I don't have a brother anymore; you want to be my brother now?"

Her words send a shard of pain through my chest. I don't know what to say to that.

"You need a sister now. I could be your sister, Jon Snow. We could be nice to each other and…and…think happy thoughts…"

I close my eyes tight, and she seems to know how close I am to tears, because her hand is petting my furry collar again.

"I'm nobody's now," she's telling me. "Nobody wants me; nobody cares about me. You…you don't have to hate or kill me…you could get used to having me…you might like me after a while…"

Now she's breaking down, and her face is nuzzling my shoulder and all the fur at the edge. I can't hold back anymore, and put my arm around her, pulling her close, letting her cry it out.

"My poor little cat," I whisper, as the tears fall down my own face. And I realize that perhaps we get the things we need in the world in the least expected ways, to soothe the holes in the heart nothing can ever fill.


	6. Chapter 6: Clothe the Cat

Chapter 6: Clothe the Cat

Myrcella, princess of the house Baratheon, what am I to do with you? You seem to be causing me more trouble than I know what to do with, and my sword-sworn lords of the north want the blood they are owed to run beneath their swords. Why is your life so precious in my eyes, when so much life has been blotted out, and may be completely blotted out, when winter comes?

I don't know the answers in the long hall, but for now I am giving her all the attention the little cat seems to want. I am sitting with her and talking with her and letting her ask me for presents. I am bringing her meals to her, making sure no one poisons them, and watching her eat her bread and milk and cut of chicken. She prides herself on eating daintily, but still manages to keep talking nonetheless. Sometimes I think she is afraid to stop.

She is so small, so frightened, so lonely all by herself. Even if her family commonly ignored her, she still had to have been used to servants, to teachers, and most of all to her brother. She misses the last most of all. I do not do well with conversation, but she seems to like me there all the same. She always seems sad to see me go, as if I were the only thing bringing her comfort.

She has her cat, its true; she spends copious amounts of time bathing it and combing it and picking the fleas out of its fur. The creature can be cranky with her at times, but also seems to have accepted she cares for him more than anyone else ever has or ever will. And I suppose every creature, two-legged or four-legged, wants to be cared for in the end.

I make sure she gets her northern cloak, with a matching muff. She is ridiculously happy about it, gazing in the mirror of her room every few minutes to see how it falls on her. "Thank you," she says to me, over and again, "Thank you, Jon Snow. I am ready for winter now."

Her words make me wince a little. "Do not wish for it too soon, little cat."

She looks almost like one of my own now, except for the summer gold hair that seems to belie her heavy garment. She has a matching smile, too full of warmth for the snows surrounding us, and her eyes may know tears, but never clouds. They are the purest of blue, like robin's eggs, not like the clouds gathering above us. They make me want to cry sometimes. But I am a king, and must learn to better steel myself to such passing fancies.

I wonder if she could be taught adapt to our ways. A little Cersei, with a Lannister mind and a Stark soul; that would be something to see indeed. I wonder if she might ever truly be my own. She said she wanted me to be her brother. I can't get it out of my head now, and I am seeing her, more and more by the passing days, as one dear to me. Sometimes I feel as if her presence alone staves off the winter in my own heart.

One day I decide to take her for a walk through some other parts of Winterfell. She's been cooped up on one floor for over a month. I know that the lords will never approve. She could be some sort of malicious little spy, couldn't she? But I also know that she'll love it. She'll view it as some sort of adventure. She's not old enough or experienced to know the barb at the end of adventures, or at least all the adventures I've ever had.

I'm not an idiot about it; I'll only take her to rooms with no major significance, and not tell her any of our family-kept secrets contained within these walls. Still, she takes it all in, wide-eyed, and is remembering this room or that from her childhood visit years before as part of the royal visit of King Robert, the start of all our woes.

When we reach the room where the ladies of the house had commonly congregated to sew or play music, she catches sight the ornate harp standing in the corner. She sits down in front of the dust-strewn instrument without invitation, and I am tempted to berate her for it. I can remember my step-mother teaching my sister Sansa by that harp. Neither of them had treated particularly well back in the day; perhaps that adds to the conflicted feelings I have over the things that belonged to them. I both grieve for them and the feelings that might have existed between us, if they had not viewed me as some evil mistake. It is hard to always bear the shame of an evil mistake.

But as Myrcella begins to play, I am suddenly taken up with the beauty of it. When is the last time I heard beauty penetrate my ears like this? It whispers of the falling snow, and the survival of a rose in winter. She sings a song of it, of winter, and the moon, and the snow, and the rose of true love, like the kiss of lovers…and I think of Ygritte.

 _Why, why, why…wild fire that loved me, and hated me, and wished me dead, and then could not strike me through in the final encounter? Why, why, why, did you not, my first love_?

Now she is singing about heroes. I wonder if there are any left in this world. Her voice, for once, makes me think there are, even if she should know better. She sings about how, no matter how much they go through, or how long it takes, a hero always comes home…

"They don't always, Myrcella." The words tumble out of my mouth before I can suppress them. "You know that…well enough…"

She looks at me sadly. "Maybe they do, and we just don't see them."

"Or maybe there are simply no heroes left. None from the ballads or storybooks at least, if those kind ever really existed."

"Yes, there are still heroes, Lord Snow," she says, and looks at me. "They may not be sung about, or thought of very much, but there are…good men. There gentle and there are strong men. And heroes are both."

Now she starts playing another song, more of a lament mixed with a lullaby. And she sings a sad story about the death of a king, and his men all cut down in battle. But then the ballad turns, for a broken blade falls to the ground, blood-spattered, metal-splintered. And the poem questions if any arm has the strength to forge it fast and wield it whole.

She is looking at me solemnly with her life-giving eyes, and I wonder if, in her mythic world that seems to cut through all the sorrow we have seen, she sees me as the sword…and herself as the mending fire. Or perhaps it is I who sees it that way for the first time, as her northern cloak drapes over her like a sheath.


	7. Chapter 7: Host the Cat

Chapter 7: Host the Cat

"Snow, what the hell is she doing?" Ser Davos Seaworth, my trusted advisor, has always been a blunt man, and he has made no small thing over the freedoms I have allowed Myrcella. The one he's particularly fixated on at the moment is her inclination to beautify dreary surroundings.

"She's…decorating," I explain, as she rather blithely involves herself in hanging a rather nice tapestry on the wall behind us. Indeed, she's so involved, she doesn't seem to know we exist. And Davos rather wishes she didn't.

"And who put her in charge of interior decoration of the Great Hall?"

"She just…found an old crate of tapestries in one of the rooms on her floor," I elaborate. "They must have been leftover from the sewing sessions Lady Catelyn and Sansa engaged in with their ladies…" I smile fondly, and painfully. "The ones Arya used to hate so much."

He exhaled. "Alright, but why did they need to come out of the crate? We've not been in the habit of using the great hall for sewing circle displays."

"I…know that," I concede. "But…well, some of them actually make the atmosphere more…"

The scowl on Davos's face makes me scour my mind for a word other than 'welcoming'.

But then Myrcella, apparently listening in after all, says brightly, "It makes the hall feel more welcoming."

"Damn it, Snow, we're not a welcoming committee!" he bellowed. "Why don't you let your little Lannister dandelion pretty up her own space? She's should even have set foot in here at all…"

Myrcella, with tacks in her mouth to pin up the tapestry edges, manages to mumble, "I'm pwincess of house B'watheon…"

"Oh, don't get her started on that again," I sigh. "It took me long enough to wean her off of that…"

"Cocky little thing than, isn't she?" he huffs, eyeing her suspiciously. She eyes him right back defiantly.

"Eh, no worse than Sansa was to be sure," I counter.

"Even with her more than questionable parentage…a bad day's riding…"

"Now, Davos…"

Myrcella looks flushed, anger mixing with an almost guilty shame, and turned her eyes down to her tapestry, fuddling with the tacking the edges to hid her feelings. She has to know, no matter how sheltered from certain things she was, the great question of her parentage that sparked off this wretched conflict. She has to know how her mother has been accused of an incestuous relationship with her brother, and how she and her brothers were more than likely a product of it.

"Don't tell me she's not the only one who knows the starting cause of this whole bloody war in which we've all suffered so much?" Davos blurted.

I exhale. "Don't you think she's suffered some too from it all?" I mumble quietly, taking him aside. "Nothing's to be gained or restored by punishing her for things beyond her control. Not even the lives of those we loved."

"Don't go being too nice to her, Snow," grunted. "She's from the same stock as Joffrey the mad boy king."

"Look, she's not Joffrey," I retort. "And from what she's told me, being his brother was no boon at all. She says he tried to rape her."

Davos raises an eyebrow. "She's a pretty enough little thing, and from I heard he had wandering hands that went after anything he could grab at. I can't say I find that hard to believe."

"Not in the least."

"Still, though…that's no reason to go making her lady of Winterfell!"

"Who said anyone made her that?" I challenge in a harsh whisper. "But at the moment, she's the only one even vaguely feminine in taste around here. From what I've heard, some women need…I don't know, a means to express themselves creatively…"

"Since when have you become an expert on women?" he demands.

"I'm not!" I retort. "I'm just…trying to make her happy…"

"Why?" He studies. "Doesn't have anything to do you with you almost slicing her in half down in the dungeon, does it?"

I roll my eyes. "Thank you for being so delicate about it."

"I knew you'd never be able to go through with it anyway," he states haughtily. "Just not your way of doing things, Jon Snow. You've got a weak belly for such things."

"And you would have been able to?" I shoot back.

He gives me a look, then he gives her a look. She's got the tapestry of a maiden with a unicorn hanging now, and looks quite proud of it. He looks back at me, crankily.

"I thought as much," I surmise. "You can be all hardness on the outside when it comes to warring, Davos, but you've a softer heart than you'd ever like to admit."

"Alright," he relents. "So neither one of us like hurting little girls, no matter who they belong to or where they came from. Enough of them have been hurt already in the course of this madness." The look in his eyes tell me he is thinking of the Princess Shireen, burned to death in hopes of obtaining a victory for her father Stannis. She was almost like a surrogate daughter to Davos and was the one responsible for teaching him how to read.

"The innocent too often suffer from the wars of the great and grand," I concur.

"But this one here is still a lioness cub, and I think she should be kept out of the council room at all times!" Davos protests.

"I'll leave as soon as I finish laying out the silverware at the tables," she announces from across the room. "If you'd like to make it go faster, Ser Davos, you're free to assist with the napkins if it pleases you."

He squints. "If it _pleases me?!_ "

"Yes," she replies, smartly. "And you, Jon Snow, you can tie these to the napkins when he's done."

I look at her in a bewildered fashion as she hands me a small bag of ribbons she dug out of one of the storage rooms.

Davos looks flabbergasted. "You know, he is the king in the north, here!"

"Yes, he's told me that before," she answers calmly. "And a king who has many guests should learn to be a proper host. Or else, he needs to get himself a proper hostess, and the right amount of servants to carry out what needs to be done. But I'm afraid we'll have to just work with what we have." She nods to the two of us like the lady of the manor, and heads off to observe a meal list she'd made for the evening's meeting of the lords.

"Now, you're not going to let her handle food, are you?" Davos blurts. "She'll poison us dead!"

"Davos, she's not cooking, just…planning," I correct him.

"Are we hosting her, or is she hosting us?" he demands. "It's like she's running the whole bloody fortress! That's more than a little frightful! The Lannisters have taken over from within!"

I twitch a smile. "Well, if you want to get her back up to her chamber of imprisonment sooner than later, we best just give the princess her due." I hand him the ribbons. "How about I lay out the napkins, and you tie them, yes?"


	8. Chapter 8: Braid the Cat

Chapter 8: Braid the Cat

I have gotten familiar with visiting her in the evening when I am finished with more important affairs at hand. She likes to talk to me, on and on about this and that, which I should find rather annoying, but I'm not. It's a pleasant distraction, really. So familiar I forget that I said she could have the old woman prepare her a bath. And I forget to knock. The door is part open anyway, and I can hear her singing inside…

"Oh…I'm sorry…"

There she was splashing around like a happy little duck in a tub of soapy water, stark naked. I can't see very much of her from the door, as she's largely covered in suds, though it does make me automatically retract.

"It's alright, I can talk from in here!" she decides, lathering up the soap in her hair, and making it stand up on end in some very strange ways.

"It would be easier if you came out," I state through gritted teeth, my eyes averted from her.

"Oh, alright," she sighs. "The water is getting rather cold anyway…brr, could you rinse me off then?"

"What?"

"The bucket over there, silly," she says, gesturing across the room. "Just pour it over me."

"Isn't the woman I put in your service supposed to…"

"Oh, I sent her away a long time ago," she huffs. "She looks at me as if I were a dragon egg waiting to hatch."

 _No,_ I think. _She looks at you as if you're a cub waiting to grow up into a lioness._ _I wonder, little one, when is that going to happen? And how sharp will your claws be?_

Regardless, I decide it's best to just oblige her and get her out of there, so with eyes mostly closed, I feel out the bucket and rather absent-mindedly dump it over her, although since I'm not watching what I'm doing, about half of it spills out on the floor.

"Och! You've drowned me!"

"Sorry, little cat."

"Well, you should be!" she asserts.

I sigh. Arguing with her about these things is like wandering around in a labyrinth. "Alright, look…I'm putting these clothes you've on the chair here nearer you. Now, you can stand up and put them over behind the screen, while I'm…not watching. Alright?"

Thankfully, she's quick about getting herself out of the tub and drying herself off behind her screen. When she tells me I can look, she comes back out in Sansa's old warm winter gown with stockings still in her hands and sits down on the bed. I swallow as she extends her leg to slip them on. She has really quite lovely legs, nicely shaped…oh, damn, what am I doing? I turn away promptly.

"I hear women wear their hair differently here than in the south, they like it more practical," she telling me, drying off her hair with the towel in a hurry. "Help me braid it, Jon Snow?"

"What…?"

"I want it done like it's done in the north. Go on, do it!"

Reluctantly, I sit down next to her and fumble with her still wet locks. I have no experience at this, but I try to remember how Sansa and Arya used to do their hair, and of my best at it. "You know, you should lock your door when bathing. It's the proper thing to do."

"No, I wanted you to come see me."

I look at her quizzically, wondering what's running around in that little head of hers. "Why, exactly?"

"I told you, I can talk from a bath, and besides, I trust you. You'd never do anything bad to me. You said so yourself."

I exhale. "And do you trust the guards half so much?"

"Oh, the guards, they're too old for such things."

"Are they…?" I raise my eyebrow.

"Yes, and not very attractive either."

I catch myself starting to smile. "You set your bar very high, don't you, princess?"

"Shall I tell you a naughty secret?" she asks me, hands pressed against her lips.

"That sort of thing is meant for handmaidens," I snort, braiding the last bit of her hair.

"But I don't have any handmaidens," she pouted. "Or…not any I'd confide in anyway."

"Alright, get it over with," I instruct flatly.

"Well, when I was young…when I first visited here, I…I had my first feelings…for a man."

I tilt my head. "Did you?"

She nods. "Your brother Rob. I saw him, and I thought…I thought he was rugged, and good-looking. I thought he carried himself so unlike the knights at the palace, less courtly, but so very…I don't know…manly. He was all his own." She blushes a little. "You know, that night, when I was in bed, I…dreamt about him…"

I smile somewhat sadly. "You fantasized?"

"I wonder what his arms would feel like…you know…around me. I…I wondered if father might betroth us…maybe."

"I suppose it some dreams must die with steel," I say with a sudden edge I did not half mean. She looks abashed, and I'm feeling the same way. She's a hard person to hurt.

"Are you mad at me?" she questions.

"No, of course not," I shrug. "I'm sure many maidens felt the same way for him. And if things had gone differently, you'd have been much more likely to have been promised to him than anyone else in this family. Then I would really be your brother, wouldn't I?"

She nods, a little bit timidly. "I would have liked you all at my wedding." She smiles. "I used to like weddings. I would watch all the preparations, and gossip about them, and think about when I'd get to pick the prettiest dress out, all my own. Mother said I could have the pick, and I could plan the feast myself…"

All this talk makes me uncomfortable. I can't help but imagine a wedding, drenched red, and the Lannisters who sent their regards. And the strange knowledge that any desire I ever had for marriage died years ago, and yet if I live out the year, I shall no doubt be pressured into one against my will.

"Didn't you ever worry about being made to marry man some six decades old with grey whiskers and eyebrows?"

She laughs at that. "I…I don't know. I don't suppose at had much time to think about all that. I didn't often imagine a face, just a touch, and…" She blushes and stands up with a silly smile and whirls around once. "…and he'll take me out, in front of all the people, and dance with me, and for once, they won't ignore me, and I'll be queen for the day."

I snort. "You have it in your blood."

She pouts a little. "Well, so do you, _king of the north_."

I shrug indulgently. "Didn't exactly volunteer for it."

"No, but you are _it_."

"Am I really? In your eyes?" I test her.

She smiles coyly again, and asks, "Do you know how to dance?"

"I don't see what that's got to do with…"

"Because a king should know how to dance."

"Says who?"

"Says everyone who will watch you, when you hold court properly some day."

"You have a lot of faith in the future," I note dismally.

She grins, takes me by the hands and pulls me up. "I'll teach you. You and your lords need some refinement in this gods-forsaken place."

"And you're going to bring it to us, single-handed?"

"If I have to," she declares. "Now, put your arm up like this…"

I wonder what Lord Davos wound think of this, if she could see it. He'd probably vomit…

As Myrcella is position my hand just so, I accidentally let my eyes fall on the scar along her palm. I feel a wave of memory, a wave of remorse, and turn my eyes down. When I lift them again, I see that she too has turned rather red, and her own gaze is to the stone floor. She has noticed, and her mind like mine has flashed back to the dungeon and the sword. I don't quite know what I'm thinking, but on instinct I bring her scarred hand up to my lips and kiss it.

Her eyes open wide, and her face goes from an ashamed red to something like a pleasurably embarrassed pink.

"Made it feel better, hmm?" I ask her, trying to be playful.

She nods. And I feel much better myself.


End file.
